


Lullaby

by 68932



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/68932/pseuds/68932
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sucker love is heaven sent.<br/>You pucker up, our passion's spent.<br/>My hearts a tart, your body's rent.<br/>My body's broken, yours is bent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullaby

You're a stumbling mess, can't keep your hands off of each other long enough to open the door. His lips on your neck, a low hum vibrates deep in his throat, and it grows into a growl. The inspector slams you against his door, seemingly careless of any neighbors unfortunate enough to still be awake. Together your fumbling hands somehow manage to get the key into the lock, and you crash inwards, the tall, lean man's hunger turned to gentility as he takes your hand and bows, before sweeping you across the threshold. You're tired of this act. One moment his fingers are on your skin like it's magnetic, and the next he's acting like you're his dance partner, giving you the same casual flirtatiousness that he broadcasts to half the world. With an icy grin, you catch him off guard, pushing him down onto the couch. In a second, you're kneeling in front of him, body parting slim thighs.

Your nose brushes against the soft fabric of his pants, smooth and crisp with a faint shine that growls 'expensive' low in your ear. the tall man lets out a laugh, legs spread lazy-wide, too easy and relaxed for the situation. He laughs out a "Baby," mouth wide and eyes crinkled, and your jaw clenches. Fingers rough, you push his thighs wide, leaning over the edge of the couch. It's brilliant white, stiff, and not at all what a couch should be. It's pristine, but you'll have it soiled by the end of this. Hands set on the inside of his thighs, you dig your fingers into the expensive material, a smile pulling at your lips when the inky fabric pulls under your fingernails. He rolls his head back on the couch, hands reaching for you in that half-aware instinctual way that you still don't know if you love or hate.

His fingers catch only strands of your hair, already leaning down close over the zipper, you slide that pretentious button from the cloth - mother of pearl on black pants? where do you even get something like that? - and thumb the zipper down, impatience and experience mixed with designer tailoring aiding its descent. Red silk peeks from underneath, and you scoff at it, not that you expected anything else. Fingers suddenly light and teasing, you slide one digit down the shaft, dancing over the taut fabric.

You hear that laugh bubbling up again, except this time it'll be a little raspy, a little hoarse, and you pull down the red fabric in one sharp motion, silencing the "Baby," that slips low from his throat. It's almost like he doesn't know your name. This is a well-worn subject, once-sharp edges dulled by night after night of sleepless, swirling thoughts and drunken, spitting fights that always end with the same thing - wine glasses popping on the floor and greedy hands, where he moans out "Baby, baby, oh god," until you think you're going to throw up.

He can't help but shiver, and you hold back a smile as it courses through his body even as he tries to stifle it. You're enjoying this now, lips parted slightly, eyes flicking up to meet his. When he smiles at you it's tight, more of a grimace than anything, teeth grinding together and hands sinking into that stiff couch. You know exactly what to do, where to touch, that you can melt that expression off his face in a heartbeat. Lean in, and all the sudden it's long legs quivering beneath you and honeyed lips dancing desperate, half-plea half-prayer.

It's the sight of him that does you in, suit jacket rumpled and splayed against the couch, legs spread wide, and shirt unbuttoned one too many, rising and falling with the ragged breathing he's trying to pretend isn't there. You can't resist that reaction, how his head rolls back, eyes turned skyward and mouth hanging open, stuck somewhere between ecstasy and disbelief. It's how he gasps when your fingers slide under his shirt, cold and greedy on the tanned skin, the low moans that he'll try to stifle when your nose bumps against him, every inch of his length in your mouth, the only thing that can bring a blush to his cheeks.

Fingers pressed against his thighs, you're leaving tiny crescent-white marks, but he won't care until tomorrow and you've got no intention of staying the night, not this time. He's going to wake up reaching for that curled shape under the sheets, name mumbled sleep-soft, and come up empty. The thought is like bile on your tongue, but you hold it there until the salty-sweet taste of the older man overwhelms it, his hips jerking underneath you, cock hot and throbbing on your tongue.

His legs shake underneath you and his hands curl through your hair. Long and blonde, it slides through his fingers until he lets out a hiss, hollywood-white teeth clenching and eyes squeezing shut, his slim fingers knotting in the strands. His back arches, crisp suit pulling and wrinkling, and before you know it you're caught up in it again, his fingers tight in your hair, lean body stiffening underneath you, moans and gasps and 'Oh baby, oh god, oh god' dripping from his lips. Somehow, it always ends up like this, your own body on fire, mind clouded and soft. At the last second you pull back, breathing hard and heavy, heartbeat thumping in your chest despite how much you wish you could silence it.

Lost in a whirlwind of pleasure, he's got no time nor desire to react, white staining bright on the red shirt he wears. Seemingly uncaring, he pull the shirt over his head, tossing it behind you. With a goofy too-loose smile he pulls you into his lap, planting butterfly-soft kisses to your lips. It's so easy that you almost lose yourself in it. 'Just a little longer,' you promise yourself, but you can already feel your eyelids growing heavy, the inspector crooning a faint tune in your ear.


End file.
